


Sirens.

by Smallshipping



Category: One Direction
Genre: It gets sad at times, M/M, NSFW, just in case you had hope., larry - Freeform, larry stylinson - Freeform, lots of protective harry, louis will not be able to walk, sex occurs, this is not very happy!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smallshipping/pseuds/Smallshipping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All the things I took for granted, all the things I thought I needed are now figments of what I once did, and will never, ever do."<br/>or<br/>Where Louis is in a wheelchair, and Harry refuses to let go.</p><p>Ship: Larry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1) (not so) Happy days

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This story is a rewrite of my very first fanfiction, but it only carries SOME events and ideas. The original is on wattpad, and I am posting this version on wattpad as well. If the wattpad version is written by anyone other than "smallshipping" aka me PLEASE tell me. I will handle it. This chapter will be shorter than future ones, for it is kind of an introduction to some of the characters.  
> Thank you, and I wish you a wonderful day.

Each breath I take shortens; my eyes glue shut. The euphoria that surrounds me is surreal; but I am certain that the twitch in my eye is not fake; each move my muscle makes ripples throughout my body. Metal is pounding against my bones, throwing me as if I were nothing. I hear the screams of my mother, and for the first time, I can hear my father cry. For a moment I am sure this is the end; this is my final resting place. But like many things; I was wrong.

I guess you could say that I wanted to die. I wanted to shut my eyes and feel the last labored breath leave my lungs under the dim street lights. I wanted to stand in plain sight with no recognition. I wanted to be mourned and prayed for. As I lie on the blackened concrete, the driver of the vehicle runs out of their car, leaving me for dead. Though I was merely eleven, and hanging onto the feeling of a million little rocks beneath my fingertips; I knew they were an idiot. If you are going to run from the scene of the crime, you should at least take your license plates with you.

•••

7 years later.

If you were to ask me what keeps me going; what gets me through this shit show that I actually quite like to live, it would be nothing. That's it, I said it. Absolutely nothing. I don't need motivation or million dollar actress to idolize. I don't feel the need to look for someone that doesn't even know my name, I don't feel the need to spend hundreds of pounds to see men preform for me. I don't need hope, because I lost that long ago. If it were to be vital, I would already have it. If anything; I need to walk again, but I can't do anything about that, now can I?

Shouting emerges from a floor below, my ears ring at the squeaky, childish tone. "Give it back!" My younger sister yells at the top of her lungs. If she were to be any louder, she would be heard from twelve feet under. I begin to stroll down the hall, and into an elevator made just for me. As the door dings and I descend, I think I've forgotten how it feels to go down stairs. All the things I took for granted, all the things I thought I needed are now figments of what I once did, and will never, ever do.

Even when the metal doors shut, the screams do not muffle. After a few seconds I am out and off, looking for my sisters, and wondering where the hell Mother is. Once I find the pubescent teens, I shout over the chaos. "LOTTIE, FIZZIE," They look at me with blank stares, a black bra in between them. Each sister holds one end, and I realize that I am unqualified for whatever this situation is. "What the hell is going on?"

"Fizzie wore my bra," Lottie snarls, looking at Fizzie as if she just committed the worst crime in the universe. "The little brat," Yank, "Won't," another yank, "GIVE IT BACK!" Now both of Lottie's hands clutch the bra, pulling as if her life depended on it.

"It's just a fucking bra-" Fizzie starts to pull back, and the bra is straining. I can practically smell a recipe for disaster, and all I can say is it's cooking fast. Their bickering doesn't cease, even overlapping my attempts at screaming over them.

"LIL BITCH"

"ITS JUST A FUCKIN BR-"

"I DONT WANT MY NIPS TO TOUCH YOUR FILTHY BOOBS-"

"SHUT UP," I yell, in equivalent to their shouts. It's as if the gods as if finally heard my prayers, because for once; they listen. They stare at me once more, like marionettes left still. I sigh in relief, scooting closer to them. I snatch the bra away from both of my sisters and scowl. They look down upon my with equally menacing glares. Though I am small, broken, and perhaps a little weak; I stand my ground. I will not lose to two teenage girls, because I, Louis Tomlinson, am stronger.

As soon as those words enter my brain I feel hands touch my shoulders. Big, strong ones that hold a vice grip. Harry's hands; the ones that will never let go. "What's going on here?" The words leave his lips like honey, sweet and slow on the ears. Lottie begins to explain the situation, describing everything as if it were the worst thing to ever happen. Harry nods along as I sit, with the bra on my lap. "I see," I can feel him shift his feet. "But you guys aren't even the same cup size?"

Lottie smiles and looks up, like she's just found the meaning of life. "See, Fiz, see!? You can't even fit it! Told you," Felicity gives Harry her worst glare, sending daggers left and right. Harry is a lucky boy, because looks don't kill. She scans her eyes around the room, making sure to make contact with each person before she stomps off in defeat. Her socks don't make a sound on the marble flooring, but that doesn't stop her.

Lottie goes to grab her bra, but I snatch it further away. "Nope," I say, simply. The bra's seams are stretched, and the elastic is wasted. It's a waste of a good bra and good money, let me tell you that. She goes to protest, but I glide away. I guess you could say that is a benefit of being in a wheelchair; you're faster than most. Lottie trails behind me, buzzing with rage. She shouts and squeals about how this is a Victoria's Secret bra. A bra is a bra, really.

•••

 

The first time I noticed I wasn't the same, it was a week after the incident. I, small, tired, and a bit sad, asked my Mother a simple question.

"Can I go for a walk?"

I don't think it was the fact that I wouldn't be able to actually walk. It was the unsettling feeling bubbling up to the surface; The tense silence finally shattering beneath the screams that escaped my lips that faithful night. A revolution was in construction, only this wasn't the good kind. No tyrants were being overthrown. No enemies were slain. No one cheered in it's glory. This was the kind that hurt. The kind that wretched your heart until you were absolutely sure it would split into two. It was my kind of pain; for it would continue to follow me until this very day. Mother shook her head just a touch, enough for me to notice. She stood still in the kitchen afterwards, knife just centimeters away from the bell peppers, thoughts thousands of miles away from her head. I nodded in recognition, understanding her grief. I was the one bolted shut.

I thought I might as well be returned to god, but then I remembered that the man upstairs does not offer refunds, and he certainly does not offer do overs. Sadly, I needed both. As I went away, the chopping did not resume. She did not hum like before. I did not look back, and if I'm honest, I wish I did. Because then I would remember my Mother before the worry lines creased her brows, I would remember the hymns she hummed for herself in preparation for supper. I would remember the things I no longer have, and I am starting to think the list of things I've forgotten is growing larger than I can bear.

That afternoon, I met up with Harry. Harry hung his head low, stepping on the pavement in shame as he pushed me along. Later he confessed he felt guilty. He was the one that could still stomp on the pavement, the one that can still run away from his fears, the one protected a faux sense of security, and I was swept blind from above the rug. My childhood was cut short, because children run. They move as fast as they can; they sprint, they jog, they walk, they crawl for gods sake. And I could not do a single thing in comparison.

Little pitter patters emerged from Harry's sneakers, and my wheels crunched the autumn leaves beneath us. I felt silly. Harry was 10. On the playground, I would reign supreme and gloat of my victories. I would become king of the court in hand ball. I would be in control. The thing was, I could not play on the playground anymore, simple liberties were snatched away from me so quick I gasped and grabbed; hoping they would come back. But you see; I was no longer in control, my kingdom long forgotten. The cards I once held with a grip so tight I feared my thumbs would snap were no longer in my hands. They were floating, falling effortlessly thanks to gravity. I never liked floating ,and I never liked following either.

Harry attempted conversation, his small voice slicing through the sound of autumn's breeze. "At least you won't have to walk to school anymore."

I snorted at the thought. How silly. "I won't be able to walk at all."

"Don't say that." I never quite got the thoughts of children once I became an outsider. The seemingly logical peace of mind no longer fit into my mutated skull. "It's true," I spoke back, sharp as knives. I wondered if I would be able to push Harry away, but the thought vanished as soon as it appeared. Harry was the only thing I truly had. Sure, I had Mother and my sisters; but compared to this none of that mattered. He was my one connection between my two lives. A living, breathing model of what it meant to hold on and to stay strong.

"Peter Pan said its not fun to grow up."

I looked down, my lap coming into view. Peter Pan had always been our favorite. At night we'd adventure Neverland in our sleep; at dawn we'd speak our dreams. It was a continuous pattern, seemingly never ending. But, like Peter Pan's and Wendy's expeditions, all things had to end. Sometimes...they aren't for the best.

"Peter Pan isn't real," I spit, venom spewing out my lips as if it were rain. Harry says nothing in return. I realize now that my childhood linked with his. From birth to present, we were linked. When my cards were shattered and scattered, his were sliding out his grip. When I was gasping and flailing, he sunk to keep me at bay. When I lost the liberty to walk; he pushed me along both physically and mentally. Despite everything he did for me, despite how much I gained from having him call me his friend; I hated him at times. I was strung tight with jealousy, and played by the piper with sick intentions. I was angry, and because I knew no one else, Harry took my mourning. He ate it as if it were a meal. With each bite his stomach groaned and moaned, but he didn't stop. I never heard him complain, I never heard him snap back, I never saw him grasp his singing stomach in pain. But Harry is quiet; hidden. You'll never hear him cry, and you'll never see him shiver at the thought of eating my slop again. When I remember that, I almost wish I'd realized it sooner. Harry doesn't deserve people like I. Never has, and never will; but the earth still carries a complex that makes him stay. I haven't got a clue as to why.

•••

Harry is eighteen now. His lanky limbs stumble as he jumps on the trampoline with my sisters. Giggles and laughs erupt from the trio's mouths. Harry looks to me, his face the definition of joy. I smile back, trying not to show my remorse. I head inside as the laughter emerges. I can't help the thoughts wandering my mind, I can't help my sadness, I can't help the jealousy hot in my gut. I don't get jealous often anymore, but there are times in which I wish I were able to travel time. Times in which I would be able to walk. Times in which I could provide more than a short stroll around the neighborhood; because my arms get tired.

I go upstairs, staring blankly as the metal doors shut in my wake. As I arrive on the second floor and stroll into my bedroom, the emotions hit me. I cannot even get into bed alone. I stare at the mattress with feelings of fury and shame. I never chose this. I never wanted to miss out on fun with family of trips with friends. It all proves to me that just because you don't want something, doesn't mean you won't get it.

I hear foot steps ram up the stair way; I close my eyes. The sick, twisted side of me imagines they are mine. The sad, remorseful side of me sinks my shoulders deeper into the ground. I can see Harry in my peripheral vision; standing at the doorway, leaning on the frame.

There is a familiar crease in his brows, his jaw set. "What's wrong?" He asks, and I feel even worse. It's his birthday, and I've gone and ruined the moment.

"I don't know," I reply, because truth be told; I haven't got a clue. Too many things are fighting their way to the forefront of my mind, and I am just tired. The thought saddens me further, because the solution to my problem is a nap; but I cannot do even that alone.

WORD COUNT: 2295.


	2. 2) Feel Me, Breathe Me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To say I'm actually swimming would be like putting glasses on a blind man and saying he's actually seeing. Harry starts to remove his hands from my body. "No," My voice sounds frail and scared, and I hate that it comes out that way. I seem to hate the truth, nowadays. Harry freezes in his tracks. I am half floating and half still. "Stay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't suggest reading this if you are easily triggered, for it has major themes of depression. (And I've sent this to a few of my friends and the majority said they cried. I just thought I should let you know this isn't light hearted, but you know...you do you.)

His breath fans my cheek; even breaths inhaling and exhaling. I find the sound soothing, nuzzling my head further into his neck. He sings to me softly, a song in which I can recite in my sleep. Sia slips through his lips, her notes influencing his speech. Her melodies mend my melting frame. I don't dare open my eyes. The fear of opening my sea green pupils sends chills through my spine. I do not want to remember, I do not want to need Harry to hold me when I am fearful. I do not want to live this life I lead, but I am; that's the problem.

We lay in my Mum's lake house. I can hear the water flow outside, they sway me toward slumber. Harry finishes singing, soon the only thing I am conscious of is his breath on my cheek. It is warm, soft, sweet. My heart leaps at each exhale, my lashes flutter. My heart feels strained in his arms, but I cannot complain. It is the kind that makes me want to crash our lips together and settle the tension between us. It makes me want to hold his cheeks so I can touch the peach fuzz on his features. I feel wrong as I think these thoughts, I feel like I am somehow breaking a promise. To who? I cannot tell you. I haven't promised anyone a thing except Harry.

His hand engulfs my spine, rubbing upward and downward, transforming what once were harsh waves into a cool and collected stream of water. Harry sweeps my mind of self doubt, shipping it off to somewhere without a label. I do not know where it goes, but I am almost sure it will come back after he has left my grasp. After all, boxes with no destinations always come back. We lie on the navy sheets; Harry wrinkles the sheets as he moves his feet. I wish to do the same, but mine lie feebly next to his thigh. "Harry," I speak. It is not a question nor a plea; it is a word that flows through my mind each night. The moonlight transcends through the window, and I'm almost certain it illuminates his cheek bones beautifully. I am almost sure his eyes have become forest green in it's wake. I open my eyes, slowly but surely. My eyes sting as they appear, for they have been closed for hours now. My fingers thumb the back of Harry's sweatshirt, and his eyes are sweeter than any candy I've ever tasted. I want to cry. The reason behind my tears is evident. Our lips are mere centimeters apart, and yet...I...cannot...find the courage. His lips are puffy and pink, his eyes hooded, and his jaw a set structure. A thing of beauty lies before me, and I cannot fathom how this is not make believe. I stuff my head into his chest, and his hands grab my head; cradling me like I am a lifeline. I tug harder and hold tighter. I cannot seem to hold on tight enough. I am grasping and grasping at his back, trying to stay afloat, trying to anchor myself down.

"Shh, calm down Lou," Harry pets my hair, gently pulling each strand as he runs his hand through it. It is only when his sweater is soaked that I realize that I am crying. The tears I just spilt merge with the ones I have yet to drop. He begins to sing once more, but it is not Sia. It is not Adele. It is not something I can recite. The feeling of the unknown wraps my frame and finds its way into my ears. I grasp the material until my knuckles are numb, choke on the sobs that have yet to leave my mouth. I burry my head further into his chest. Nothing seems to be enough.

The sound of his voice meshes with my cries. The wind becomes harsh outside, I can hear the leaves crumble beneath its shattering dance. I wonder if I am the wind or the leaves. If I am the wild and unruly voice in the midst of silence or if I am the small leaf in the midst of millions desperately  trying to hold onto something that will eventually send me flying to a destination unknown. I come to the conclusion that I am neither. For I am not wild and unruly, and I am not trying to hold onto my roots. I cannot help but notice how my conclusion contradicts my actions. Harry's sweater is stretching under my tugs, his voice hidden beneath  my whimpers.

I am coming to the conclusion that I do not know many things. I am partially thankful, because the dark dense thoughts that would have consumed me are drifting in the unknown. Yet, the thought of the things I would like to remember swimming along with the things I never want to see settles deep inside my stomach. It does nothing to keep me afloat; I tug harder, choke louder, and cry faster. The weight of the world is settling into my shoulders, and I have never been known to be very strong.

Breathing feels foreign, my skull feels light. I try to communicate, but it seems as if even that is a feat meant for the gods. I manage to gasp, so quietly I'm sure Harry cannot even hear. "Help," I can feel him nod just above me. There is no space between us. I can feel his stomach clenching, I can sense that this is effecting him too. I want to scream. I am trying! I am trying. Please, oh please, know I am trying. Even when it seems like I'm not; I am. I want you to know that, Harry. I need you to know that.

He whispers, trying to keep his composure. Despite his efforts I can hear the underlying tone in his voice. "Tell me what you need. Tell me what I need to do to help," The answer is simple, but the response is difficult. It stays sticky at the back of my throat; clogging my system so I cannot speak. I need to remember how it felt like when your thighs touched mine, I need to know how it feels like for your toes to curl in pleasure. I need to know how it feels when our legs intertwine. I need to know how it feels for your knees to buckle, because I cannot live with the unknown. I need you to kiss me; settle the tension that is building. I need to be reminded that I am not a hopeless romantic in the midst of loveless robots. Of course, I say none of the above. It is not because of the sins that will escape my lips, it is because it is a phrase for another day.

I am growing tired. My sobs soften into cries, my fists are pliant, gently stroking his back. I wonder if I've hurt him. I hope I haven't. My breathing is still slightly labored, but other than that I am spent. My body is slack in his arms, drifting off, unable to anchor itself down. "You," I say, so tired my bones feel heavier than lead. My blood is pounding; my muscles take the beating that comes along with it. The word that I have spoken is so small, so puny inside, but it's definition is infinite. Its everything I needed to say and more,  a small envelope of a giant mash of letters and symbols, weaved together so carefully that if this three letter word were to be dropped it would shatter.

Harry hugs me tighter, bringing us closer. I am too weak to make sounds to go along with the tears that streak across my cheeks, he scoots me further up the mattress. If I were to lean forward just a touch, our lips would meet. The thought makes the blood in my veins race. I can see now that there are tear tracks on his cheeks as well. I've hurt him, and the thought murders all good left inside me. He whispers once more, hot breath fanning my lips. "You've always had that, Lou." I focus on the tears in his eyes. Does he think he's not enough? Oh god, what have I done? Let the world know that Louis Tomlinson is notorious for one thing and one thing only; screwing up.

I utter words that do not make sense. "Then show me," I want to scold myself afterwards. He is! Who else will hold you at God knows what time in the morning when you're hyperventilating? Who else will stand by you? I am starting to feel as pathetic as I must sound. Before I can think further I taste cherry Chapstick.

Harry is kissing me.

I melt, I cannot feel my fingertips; for tiny fireworks shoot amongst them. My eyes shut once more, and I think that I can do this for the rest of my life. My head is clouded, and I cannot breathe. Harry takes the life inside me and replaces it with his. I have never felt so...so...cared for. Almost as soon as our lips met, they detach, and Harry is a stuttering mess. "I'm so sorry, forget that-" He starts to pull away, but with little strength I can muster I hold him where he is. His eyes are wide and panicked, his mouth still saliva slicked. I can't help but feel horrible as he tries to pull away. He regrets it, doesn't he? He regrets it and it's only been a few seconds.

"Please," i say . He thrashes against me, and I feel as if the roles are reversed. Catch us five minutes ago and you'd see me mirroring him. "Harry, it's okay," I say, his quiet grunts become silent. He stops moving. He's frozen still. 

"But- my Mum- She- I can't, Lou. You know I can't," Harry's Mother was very "conservative". Kill a man, fuck your sister, film porn on your free time, but PLEASE do not be gay. That was her motto, and if I'm honest I'd say that I didn't like her much. She's also very dead, and every time Harry says things like this I wonder what goes on in his mind. She died months after my legs did, so I'm not sure if Harry ever got time to heal.

"Your Mum isn't here, Harry. She's not here to put you down," I whisper so soft I wonder if he can hear. I don't feel like I am talking to a scared child, but perhaps I should. Harry never really grew up in this aspect after The Passing. His maturity only spans through day to day activities, but catch him showing fear and you'll wonder if he's eighteen yet. He shakes his head, stubborn. He never really accepted the fact that she passed either. Days after The Passing he spoke to walls and claimed it was her. Weeks after The Passing he said he can still feel her follow him. Years after The Passing he fears sleeping, because she haunts his dreams. I wonder what I can do to help him, and I fear that the answer is nothing. "It's okay. Don't worry."

"But- she's- she's gonna hate me, Lou," He keeps going, breaking my heart with each syllable. I hate lying to him, I really do, but I fear if I do not he will never accept himself. And the thought of that is too horrid to think of.

"Everything is fine. Harry. Promise. Harry, Look at me-" He pouts, finally letting me see his forest green pupils. "Promise me that you'll do things for yourself. Not your Mum, not me, not for anybody else. Promise me that."

He hesitates. "Promise."

•••

I stare at the lake. My eyes begin to burn at the five minute mark, but I do not cease. Some part of me hopes I'll miraculously walk into it, swim and laugh as before, but another part glooms over me and carries a cloud above my skull. That part taunts me, making my limbs scoot myself further until eventually the water is inches away from my toes. The water is clear and the plants are evergreen. Trees taller than any building I've seen tower over me, bushes so fluffy I could fall and get lost in them crowd their bases. I hear footsteps behind me, but I do not turn. I feel hands on my shoulders, but I do not react. I know it is Harry and I know I should at least greet him, but my grief does not allow me to speak.

"Do you want to swim?" Harry speaks, a heavenly sound cutting through that of only wind. I only shrug in response. What does it matter? I can't anyway. I hear the leaves rustle behind me, and I hear his breath fan my ear. "Want me to show you how?" I can hear a smile on his voice.

"There's no point."

"Do you?" He persists, and I start to get annoyed. Why is he doing this? Because at this point I haven't got a clue. It's either he is trying to taunt me and leave me to mend myself or he's actually going to do something helpful.

"It won't matter."

He sighs. "Just answer the question."

Usually, I'd answer. But I cannot help but feel like he is holding this privilege right out of my reach. It's close enough to smell, but I cannot touch the soft sense of freedom. "Yes, okay? I want to, but it doesn't matter." After I speak, Harry says nothing for a while. I continue watching tiny waves fold along the bed. I observe the ways the leaves crash together when the wind surges through. It is becoming cold, and I am starting to think I should have brought a coat with me. I begin to think of the rabbits and birds that live near by. Are they bundled up warm with their family? Are they running for shelter, or are they staying still because they've already got coats of their own? I hope for the latter. Eventually Harry stands in front of me, blocking almost everything from sight. "What?" I say, looking up at him. He smiles small.

"Take off your shirt," He speaks as if it's nothing. As if he's requesting me to give him a bite of toast, but I am no toast and I can definitely guarantee that there will be no biting. He goes on to explain. "We're gonna swim."

"Harry-"

He interrupts. "We're gonna swim, and I don't think your Mum would appreciate your new shirt getting wet."

l scoff. "I've had this shirt for years, Harry."

He squints down at me in distaste. "So?"

"So it means that-"

"Can you just swim with me?" He's desperate now, and I can't help but feel my heart throb. He's never had any friends but me, so going swimming with the lads was never on his calendar. In that way, I feel for Harry. He was a lonely child, because no one wanted to hang out with Wheelchair Boy's friend as much as they wanted to hang out with Wheelchair Boy himself. (Just invade you couldn't catch it- I'm Wheelchair Boy. Surprising. I know.) Nonetheless, I take off my shirt, covering my torso with my arms.

"What now?" I say, looking at him expectantly. It was his idea, so therefore he must supply the directions. He bends down so we are eye level.

He is quiet, and he sounds like he is talking to a scared animal. I'm not too sure if I qualify under that range, but I continue anyway. "Put your arms around my neck," And because I'm just so tired of fighting, I do it without a word. "I'm gonna pick up your legs now," I cannot feel him pick up my legs, but I can see it. It's bizarre, really. It's like smelling something familiar with a blindfold. You can smell it, and you know what it is because you've tasted it before. But there is something that isn't connecting; something important that gives you sense and knowledge and overall understanding of what is actually going on. He is carrying me like a newly wedded bride, and I am very afraid. I look below us. I can see him step into the water, submerging himself deeper. With each step he looks into my eyes and I look into his. I know I should be worried about is falling over, but I cannot seem to care about that. There is something between us. Something powerful is running throughout my being and I cannot seem to control its pathway. I feel the water start to soak my bum. My ocean blue pupils widen. "Sh, it's okay Lou," I search his eyes for a hint of a lie but I find nothing. I hold on tighter, and pull myself closer. I find myself doing that often lately, but only with Harry. It keeps me warm. Sane. Capable of understanding that though he isn't in the exact situation as I am; I am not alone. And I am starting feel that being lonesome is one of my biggest fears. I see my feet touch the water. Then my thighs. Then I feel the water cover the pouch on my stomach. Harry is still looking at me with an intensity I cannot describe. "Almost there," He whispers, almost as if he's amazed.

To say I'm actually swimming would be like putting glasses on a blind man and saying he's actually seeing. Harry starts to remove his hands from my body. "No," My voice sounds frail and scared, and I hate that it comes out that way. I seem to hate the truth, nowadays. Harry freezes in his tracks. I am half floating and half still. "Stay."

He shakes his head. "Who will be there when I'm not here anymore?" 

I furrow my brows; bewildered. "You'll always be there. I know you will...," My voice does down for a second, but I start right up a moment later. "If you won't be there later be here now. For me. I-I'm- I'm ...scared Harry. I need you now."

"Only now?"

"Forever. Now, yesterday, the day before, and tomorrow. So please, don't leave me now." I feel myself getting emotional. I need a distraction. A bliss to mask my insecurities, a feeling so strong it covers everything up. "Kiss me," I say. And so he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is appreciated (:.


	3. 3) Make Me, Mend Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From dawn to dusk to the seconds in between, he is beauty; I cannot, no matter how hard I may try, accurately describe him. In most ways, he is for my eyes only, as I am for him.

In Mass I'd be told desire leads to the devil, and if that's true; I'm walking into his palm.

Still damp, I breathe slowly. I turn my head to face my best friend, and I am faced with a sight of pure beauty. Sunlight cascades throughout Harry's features, catching the minuscule droplets on his skin that have yet to dry. He breathes a bit heavier than I, for he had to face the trek of carrying me while trying not to drown. We lie on the bank, absorbing the moment. Though our lips just met mere minutes ago, it feels like ages. I miss them.

"Harry?"

"Yes?" I notice now that there is a scar beneath his left nostril. It's not big, but it's not minuscule either. I wonder how it came to be, but not for long. I notice other things before my thoughts linger greatly on it. He has a tiny mole under his chin and when he smiles his eyes crinkle. His eyes have a bit of blue in them, as mine have a bit of green. I think that's how I can prove how we're meant to be. I have him inside of me, and vice versa. For years I wondered how it felt to have something beneath your nose, and never notice it. Now I understand. I understand how oblivious I've been to this circumstance. I notice the way my fingertips shake in his touch, or how my eyelashes flutter as he comes closer. I notice how he gets nervous when we're cuddling in bed, or how he looks at me with that look. The one that proved this all to me, the one with so much love it physically hurts. I notice one final thing; the look, he's doing it now. Harry dislikes it when I point out his small "faults" (I don't consider them that, but he continues to persist so.); I pretend I'm clueless.

"What?" I say, my eyes flutter on purpose. Goosebumps trickle down my spine, covering me from left and right. Night and day transcend at once, cloaking us with a beautiful sunset.

"You're just...," he does not finish his sentence, but I know his meaning. I understand what he's trying to say, even though it's stuck. I hide my smile on my shoulder, but Harry reaches out and touches my chin. Our eyes meet. A whisper escapes his lips. "Absolutely beautiful. I..," Harry has always had trouble with the speed of his sentences, but never has it been this bad. Is he nervous? Scared? Of what? Us? In fear factor, I'd be compared to a mouse. I simply do not understand what there is to fear. "I feel like I'm...I feel like I can't.."

Though he doesn't state the subject, I know what he's talking about. I shake my head. "Harry, love, she's gone. She cannot hate you, she cannot be disappointed in you. I'm here, though. If you'll take me."

He scoffs slightly, and mimics me. "If you'll take me." He shakes his head with a smile on his features. "I'll take you, have you even. You're far better than anything I can imagine, Lou. Far better than anything beyond that. Better than the thing better than that, too." I giggle. Harry can be funny, when he's not cracking silly knock knock jokes. "You're sweeter than heaven, love, more beautiful than God. I hope that one day you'll realize it too."

I'm blushing full on and fierce; but I will not hide. "Same goes to you, Styles, but if we're talking about me being yours; I fear that the day has already come."

He's visibly confused, and if I'm honest, I'll say that he looks like an adorable puppy. "What do you mean?" For a long time now I knew this day would come, but for a reason unknown to me a part of me never felt like it would happen. I never prepared, I never looked forward to it, I never even thought 'Hey, Louis, get your shit together.' But I assume that it's for the best. If I learned anything in Boy Scouts; it's that everything is done better when you haven't practiced at all.

"I'm yours," I speak, with eyelids shut and skin chilled. A intake of breath is heard, but it is mine. I fear him standing. I fear him leaving. I fear him erasing every thought of us that bound into his memory. My fears do not come true, and for that, I am forever thankful.

...

His lips are euphoric. As they crash with mine I swear that I hear angels sing sweetly. We're messy, and very uncoordinated, but somehow he manages to drop me onto our bed without fail. Pants can be heard from ten feet away as he roams his hands around my torso. His touch is so gentle and kind as his fingers almost lap my entire torso. The sheets become moist under our wet bodies, and the moonlight transcends inside. I pull at the roots of his curls and earn a pur in reply.

Harry rocks back and forth, joining our hips with each movement. His breath becomes heavier as I whine. My limbs are pliant as he kisses up beside my neck, keeping me warm; biting on the occasion. He undresses himself first. I watch, mesmerized. This is not the first time I've seen him naked, but it is the first time I've seen him naked with the intention of making love. As soon as he is undressed he hooks his thumbs under the waistband of my boxers and asks me for permission. I happily give consent. Once we are just sweaty bodies and tainted souls he walks over toward the dresser. I watch him with every move he makes. Beauty is not to be defined. Beauty is not to be spoken. Beauty is not to written or read. Beauty is to be heard and to be seen. Beauty is to be witnessed, to be preserved in the eye of the beholder. Harry Styles is beauty. From dawn to dusk to the seconds in between, he is beauty; I cannot, no matter how hard I may try, accurately describe him. In most ways, he is for my eyes only, as I am for him. He grabs a condom and lubricant from the drawer, and I wonder where he got those from. Those thoughts are briskly swept away when he is above me again, but he scoots further down the bed and lands on his calfs. His cock sits up just as he is,and for a reason unknown it makes me smile. He grabs the lubricant and grabs a pillow from above my head. Harry lifts me by the small of my back, and sets the pillow underneath it.

"What's that for?" I pant, squirming as he opens the bottle of lube. His skin is fair, but the light paints it with shades of umber. He looks up from the bottle and back down at me with green eyes far too gone. He smirks a little. I am new to the procedures of sex (especially same sex intercourse. Mum never thought about teaching me about that one), but Harry isn't. He isn't a slut, but he has had a fair share of one time lovers.

"Helps me get to my prostrate, Lou."I clear my throat, looking down at his penis. It's quite large,actually. I bet if I were to wrap my minuscule hand around it, I'd be able to wrap it just barely. The thought of such actions make the butterflies residing in my stomach escape their cage. Fluttering, all at once, and never truly stoping. "Do you want to do it, or me?" He makes a scissoring motion with his fingers, and wiggles the bottle.

"Umm, you?" Of course, I don't know what is going on, so I just pin it on him. He must know what to do, right? Even if I am at...a disadvantage.

He chuckles, then speaks with a voice so sweet and sticky. "Do you want to watch? Or do you want to help?" I want to make love with him, fuck him, give him everything I have; even if I will possibly never feel it again. I think he notes my slight confusion, though. So he proceeds with: "I'm gonna open myself up. Prepping, you know? You do it with your fingers. Like this," He takes my hand and closes it, then after pulls my middle and index finger straight up. He makes my fingers do the scissoring motion he was demonstrating earlier. I watch in amazement. My fingers go inside him. My dick goes inside him. It's not like I didn't know this before, but it never really hit me until now. I get a little light headed, but I take it as a good thing. If I were fully woke I'd be a squirming, whining, virgin mess.

"I'll help," I say before I think. I don't know how I will survive the next five minutes around a horny Harry, nonetheless i n s i d e the previously mentioned angel of God. He instructs me to flip onto my stomach, and with a little help; I do. He crawls in front of me, then props himself up on his hands and knees. I open the bottle, my fingers fumble, I shake, the world stops. He tells me to stick my middle finger into his ass, and I do as such. He's warm and tight, just like I thought he would be. After a few minutes he asks me to insert another with shallow breaths, and after another few minutes, yet another finger is added.

"I'm ready," He says, and I slip my fingers out of him. They're slippery and warm, but I find no reason for complaints. Harry flips me back over onto my back, gentle yet hurriedly. I can't tell I am not the only one anticipating the moments to come. "I'm gonna ride you, alright?" He straddles my thighs and plays with my cock, smiling with each moan I breath.

"Ride me?" I ask it as if I am a child. I don't mean to sound innocent, or oblivious; I genuinely don't know what that is.

He looks up from my cock and into my eyes. I am not sure if there is much blue to meet green, because my pupils are dilated as well. "Like this," He starts to grind against the top of my legs, and if I had any feeling in them, I'm sure I'd be grinding back. I want to cry. Call me a cry baby if you will, but before you do answer me this; Have you ever been able to taste something so sweet and taken it for simple? Have you ever had the easiest tasks become impossible? Have you ever lived? Because I know not everyone has my disadvantage, but I know everyone has one. Even you. I'm sure my unease is written everywhere possible, my eyes watering, fingers twitching. I must look a mess. I cannot fathom why Harry must want me in the first place, nonetheless want to make love with me. "You're beautiful," He starts, his hands wandering from my chest to my hips and back up again. "My pretty, pretty Lou," His voice is so quiet, so silent. His fingers stroke my cheek softly. My eyes close. "Bluest eyes and the brightest smile I've ever seen," I don't point out the fact that I hardly smile anymore. "Sweetest lips and the most beautiful accent," He pecks my lips. "Don't know how I got so lucky."

I love Harry. I love him because not once does me mention how strong I must be, or how brave I must have been. Not once did he mention the dead weight I have to carry each day. Not once does he mention how he takes care of me, or mention my faults and why it's okay to have them. Harry is special. Harry doesn't do things like that. He doesn't turn this bad to good because he knows. He knows me like a book he's read a million times, pages torn and binding threadbare. Harry knows that doing such things will not ease my pain. I love him because he knows. I love him because he stays.

He kisses me one last time before putting the condom on my dick. He positions himself above me and slowly sinks down. Once I've bottomed out he starts to grind, and I begin to see stars. Moans escape both our lips as his hands settle on my chest.  I am quiet, whining every few seconds. But Harry is loud. He wants the whole forest to know how he's feeling. Obscene words escape his tender lips, and I think this is as close to heaven I'll ever be. His dick bounces with each movement he makes, pre come dribbling down the shaft. With each passing minute he gets louder and faster and redder.

"Aah," He shouts, his fingers digging into my chest. My back arches higher as he bends down to kiss me. His lips are a mere inch above mine. "You love fucking me, don't you? Watching me ride you. Don't you, Lou? Love hitting my prostate and hearing me scream your name-" My vision blurs, pleasure blinding me. The sound of skin slapping drives me further and further, but I don't think I will ever be as far as Harry is. He sits back up and rests his hand on my thigh, so he is completely exposed to me. My name is incoherent when he says it, but it gets me off all the same.

After another minute he comes, the sticky white substance reaching my neck. Even though he's finished, he doesn't stop. Pleasure seeps it's way into my skin until I cannot find anything else to feel. I follow soon afterwards with a shout so loud I think I've managed to surpass Harry. He finally slows down, grinding small and tiredly. He moves so I am no longer inside him, and cuddles me.

He holds me as if I am not broken. He holds me in a way that Mother wouldn't dare to, in a way my sisters would never execute. He holds me like he loves me. For once the sound of sirens dull. The gravel beneath my fingertips disappear. We laugh like we are twelve again. I am not stuck in an awful rewind of the worst day anymore.

I smile like I haven't in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sooo much for reading. I'm a bit emotional at the moment, for this is a rewrite of my very first story. I can't believe how much I've changed as a writer and a person. Things have changed within and around me, but one thing has remained constant. My love for reading and writing. I thank you for taking this journey with me.  
> I wish you all the best.   
> And please remember:
> 
> Some things need more courage than others, but they are not impossible. Somethings hurt more than others, but they do not define you. Sometimes, some things are impossible, and that is okay.
> 
>  
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is appreciated!


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